


i'll fall apart (with all my heart)

by shadowdance



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Friends to Lovers, Post-Time Skip, Sylvgrid Week (Fire Emblem), this is a weird mashup of humor and angst. sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: Sylvain knows the only thing scarier than falling for someone is falling for your best friend.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	i'll fall apart (with all my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> For sylvgrid week, prompt "confession." It's a very loose interpretation of it, though. Instead it's mostly Sylvain having anxiety on whether or not to tell Ingrid. 
> 
> this was a collab with my friend! look at her [art](https://yeosiin.tumblr.com/post/620014125922287616/collab-piece-w-oceannics-fic-for-day-4-of)!
> 
> Title is from Tennis Court by Lorde.

On the bright side, Sylvain knows he’s acting weird.

He is aware of the hitch in his tone, the blush to his cheeks, the fumble of his heartbeat. He knows this isn’t exactly normal behavior, so that’s good. He’s not a fool. He knows this is not normal.

The problem is that Ingrid knows it, too.

“Are you okay?” she asks him—once, twice, three times. Her expression is always the same: green eyes wide with curiosity, confusion laced in her tone. There’s no actual worry in her voice, so Sylvain knows she’s more suspicious than concerned. That doesn’t ease the ache in his chest.

“I’m fine!” he says brightly—a little _too_ brightly. This is not him, and they both know it. Ingrid knows him better than anyone, after all. Sometimes it seems like she knows him better than himself.

But Ingrid doesn’t know the intricacies of Sylvain’s heart. So all she does is shrug and turn away, acting like this conversation didn’t happen. When she does, Sylvain’s heart falls in his chest like a meteorite, destined to crash and burn into nothing.

Ingrid turns away, and Sylvain falls a little harder.

+

In dire situations like these, Sylvain tries enlisting help. Felix, however, is rather displeased with the task.

“I don’t understand why you’re coming to me,” he says, dragging an elbow over his face. His tone is disinterested, almost bored. “I’m pretty much useless in this department.”

Sylvain scowls. The sun blazes over them, catching the very tip of Felix’s sword— _real_ sword, not a dummy sword, but that’s just Felix. He’d promised to help Sylvain on the condition that they would train, but so far they’ve done a lot of training and not a lot of helping. Honestly, Sylvain’s chances are probably better with someone else, but he doesn’t _trust_ anyone else, really. Nobody would really understand this, besides—

 _Ingrid,_ his mind hisses, and Sylvain’s heart twists in his chest. She’s the one he trusts with everything, yes. But he can’t quite picture her helping with—this. Not unless he wants her to shatter his heart all over the ground. Not unless he wants to ruin a friendship that’s lasted since her birth _._

“I just need help,” Sylvain settles on. It comes out as a whine, and Felix raises one eyebrow. Not encouraging. “C’mon, just help me! You don’t even know what I need help with.”

Felix shrugs. “It’s about Ingrid, isn’t it?”

Sylvain splutters in surprise. Felix seizes this advantage and knocks the sword out of his hands, pointing his own blade inches from Sylvain’s throat. Game over, but it’s not like Sylvain had been trying, anyway. One problem at a time.

“How do you figure?” he asks shakily. Felix rolls his eyes.

“All your problems correlate to girls, and you came to me instead of Ingrid. But I don’t like girls, so I can’t help you with Ingrid. Also, I don’t like her.”

The last part isn’t true, but Sylvain is more focused on the possibility that Felix _knows._ That they’re edging closer to the truth, and Felix was already aware of it. That, in itself, is terrifying. Gods, if _Felix_ knows—does Ingrid? The thought terrifies him, but he swallows it down. One problem at a time, he reminds himself.

“Well, it’s about Ingrid,” he concedes. Felix narrows his eyes.

“Is it about your crush on her?”

Sylvain gasps, sounding way too much like Seteth for his own good. Maybe Ingrid isn’t the only one who can read his mind.

“How’d you know?”

Felix looks irritated now. “It doesn’t take a genius, you’ve been pining since we were kids.”

“I have not,” Sylvain argues, which technically isn’t true. Felix purses his lips and gets that look where he knows Sylvain is lying, but won’t call him out on it. He just shakes his head instead, probably internally scorning Sylvain’s stupidity.

“Well. You like her again?”

 _I never really stopped,_ Sylvain thinks, which is a terrible thing on its own. Because when they were kids, he’d been okay with it, this little piece of love carved in his chest. He’d been able to accept that Ingrid was his best friend, that he could love her but never truly have her, that Glenn would love her deeply, and that was all right. It didn’t hurt that bad, knowing someone would take good care of her. But Glenn’s not here anymore, and the war has set his feelings loose, and now Sylvain is worried about what will happen. If the war will drag Ingrid away from him, or if he’ll open his mouth and ruin it all with his words.

Ingrid is his best friend. He can’t lose her, to himself or to the war.

“Just help me,” Sylvain tells Felix now. He picks up his sword, tightening his grip. “I don’t know what to do.”

Felix’s eyebrows shoot up. “You? Don’t know what to do? About a _girl?_ ”

“It’s Ingrid!” Sylvain snaps. “She’s not just _a_ girl, she’s a girl we grew up with. She’s my best friend!”

Now Felix looks rather affronted. “I’m offended.”

Sylvain grits his teeth. “You know what I mean! I can’t just tell her how I feel, it’ll ruin—you know, everything! If it were you—”

“It wouldn’t be, first of all—”

“Okay, fine. Let’s say you fell for…I don’t know, who do you even get along with? Okay, try this: if you fell for someone really close to you, what would you do?”

Felix looks disgusted. But he also looks like he’s pondering the question, so there’s that. But right when he opens his mouth to say something, the doors to the arena creak open.

“Hi,” Ingrid says, and Sylvain is fairly certain his heart almost stops beating. There’s a lance strapped to her back and a flyaway ribbon tucked in her hair and a beautiful smile on her face. Gods, he is definitely screwed. “I thought I heard voices.”

Sylvain isn’t really sure what to say; his head is racing faster than his heart. Felix clears his throat instead.

“Sylvain is having girl problems,” he says, not looking at him. “We were just talking about them.”

“Girl problems?” Ingrid’s smile suddenly vanishes.

Sylvain shoots a pointed look at Felix: _what the hell are you doing?_ Felix ignores him.

“Yeah,” Felix says, and Sylvain has the desperate urge to strangle him. Or knock him out. Just come up with a way to get him to shut up. “He’s in a tight predicament. You’re pretty stressed about it, aren’t you, Sylvain?”

Now Ingrid looks concerned, a trace of annoyance in her gaze. She crosses her arms. “Do I need to do anything?”

“No!” Sylvain interrupts, the word coming out too strong. He glares at Felix, but his friend only looks back impassively. “No, it’s fine. I, ah, you don’t need to do anything. Really. I got it under control, you know? Er, I mean. It’s time I worried about my own problems, yeah?”

Now Ingrid just looks flat-out confused. But the annoyance has faded from her eyes, which sends a wave of relief through Sylvain. And an ache in his lungs.

“I suppose,” she says uncertainly, looking back and forth between them. Felix’s face is a mask. Sylvain hopes his is as well. “But if you need anything…”

Sylvain shakes his head, plastering a big smile on his face. It feels fake. He doesn’t like it. What he really wants to do is give her his true smile, the softer one, the one that always made her laugh when they were kids. He hasn’t done that in a long time now.

“I’m okay!” he says cheerily. “I promise. I’m just, uh, gonna go get food. So’s Felix. C’mon, Felix.”

He drags Felix out of the arena without so much a goodbye—a mistake on his end, he reflects, but he’s not thinking properly. The moment they’re outside, out of Ingrid’s view, he lets go of Felix and glowers at him. Felix, however, just looks vaguely confused.

“What? I was helping you.”

“Dimitri would’ve been more help, thanks a lot.”

“Idiot.” Felix rubs his arm. “You were supposed to tell her how you feel. It’s not my fault you didn’t catch on.”

Sylvain doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He settles for groaning and placing his head in his hands.

“If it’s any consolation,” Felix says, after a moment, “it could’ve been worse.”

“She knows me,” Sylvain says into his hands. “She really knows me. How is that not worse, Felix?”

Felix doesn’t answer him.

+

The truth of what Sylvain knows is this:

Ingrid knows him best. She’s known everything about him since they were kids. She knows that he hates the cold, that he loves peach sorbet, that he really loves horses but doesn’t have enough time to take care of them, that he flirts and flirts but he would put her and Felix over any of those girls. She knows that he hates his Crest, that he has a tangle of hate-guilt-pity for Miklan, that he tries not to think about his father. She knows that when he’s upset she should just sit there and be with him, that he’s smarter than Dimitri and Felix combined, that he frets over the possibility of an arranged marriage, that he is afraid of measuring up as a margrave. Ingrid knows everything about him; she probably has the lines of his hands memorized. She knows him.

What she doesn’t know is that Sylvain has loved her since they were kids, and he doesn’t know how to stop. And that, Sylvain thinks, is the tragedy of it all.

(The fear comes in somewhere else.)

+

“Did you work out your girl problems?”

Ingrid is fairly good at concealing the bitterness in her tone, but Sylvain can tell she’s still suspicious. He picks at his peach sorbet awkwardly, trying to ignore how her arm brushes against his. He practically tucks into himself to avoid touching her.

“Yeah. I, uh, figured it out.”

“I see,” Ingrid says. She sounds a little surprised, like that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. “What was the big deal, anyway?”

Sylvain casts a desperate look at Byleth, but he isn’t paying attention. He’s more absorbed in some stupid fishing book, although Sylvain swears that page hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.

“I’m just dealing with…stuff,” he says, avoiding her gaze. “But I haven’t broken anybody’s hearts.” _Just mine._

Ingrid purses her lips. She has that look on her face, where she won’t settle for half-truths and lies. No, she needs the whole truth, all of it in her hands. Sylvain loves that look, even if she’s using it on him. But words aren’t needed—all she needs to do is scan his face.

So Sylvain looks at her. He looks at her dead in the eye, and doesn’t push any sort of mask on his face. He is being honest, he is not hiding anything, he is loving her. She never catches the last one.

“I suppose if you had made a mess, I would’ve heard about it,” Ingrid relents. Sylvain nods, a little too energetically.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since—”

He wishes he hadn’t said that, the moment it leaves his mouth. Ingrid has a spoon halfway to her mouth, but now she shoots him a sharp look, her eyes narrowed. “Since when?”

Sylvain swallows. _Since our last conversation_ is what he could say, but it’s been a lot longer than that. He hasn’t flirted with anyone since he looked at Ingrid, since those words tumbled from his lips: _if there’s one thing I can do right, it’s protect you, okay?_ It hasn’t really felt right to flirt with anyone else since then. It felt like he was backtracking on a promise he’d never made, but still carried in his heart.

“Since our last battle,” he excuses lamely. “It’s been a little hectic.”

It’s not a lie, but he catches a glimmer of disappointment in Ingrid’s eyes. His heart squeezes, but he knows it was a safer answer. If Ingrid knew the truth—he couldn’t even picture how she would react. All he knows is that there’s a greater chance Ingrid wouldn’t be in his life, and he’d rather keep his feelings down than live without her.

“You might want to hold off until the end of the war, then,” Ingrid tells him. Her eyes are dim. “It’s only going to get crazier from here.”

Sylvain nods. He can’t trust himself to say anymore, for he doesn’t know what will come out ( _I won’t, I’m sorry, I love—)._ Instead he just sits there, picking at his food, well aware of Ingrid studying him. Byleth is reading his book, but Sylvain swears he sees his mouth poke up in an amused smile. A rare glimpse of emotion—that means Sylvain really has it bad.

“Are you going to finish that?” Ingrid finally asks, when Sylvain has only poked morosely at his food for more than a few minutes. Her eyes are very wide, almost like a puppy’s, and in spite of himself, Sylvain feels a smile tug at his lips.

He slides it to her without comment. Some things, he supposes, never change.

+

The first time Sylvain had realized he loved Ingrid, he was nine and she was seven. They were at her house, and they’d been playing some stupid make-believe battle that involved Ingrid rescuing Sylvain. Or maybe she was rescuing Dimitri; the specifics aren’t really clear in his head. Maybe she was saving them both. All he remembers is that Ingrid was the knight and Felix was the evil dragon, so they had a big fight—which mostly consisted of them throwing mud at each other.

Mud was dripping in Ingrid’s eyes, and her boots were scuffed and splotched with mud. Her braids were undone, her tangled hair tumbling softly down her shoulders. But she’d looked at him, and she’d smiled, and she’d shouted, “I’m coming for you, don’t worry!” before hurtling a big ball of mud at Felix’s face. He’d cried, naturally, but Sylvain only really remembers Ingrid’s voice, ringing in his ears, and the clarity of her bright green eyes.

He might’ve been in love before that. But it’s the earliest memory he can recall: Ingrid coming to save him, eyes bright and cheery. She’s always been doing that, really. Saving him.

It’s no surprise he fell for her, then. Only this time, she’s not here to catch him. To save him.

He’s still falling.

+

“Maybe I should just get over her,” Sylvain suggests idly. Then he waits for the verdict. Maybe approval, although he wouldn’t mind a second opinion. Advice, if absolutely necessary.

“What the fuck,” Felix says instead.

Sylvain winces. Felix still holds his sword, but he looks at Sylvain like he’s grown a third eye. Which isn’t very encouraging, to say the least.

“What’s wrong with it?” Sylvain asks. “It sounds like a good plan, right? I thought you would’ve been all for it.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “You,” he says, jabbing a finger in the air for emphasis, “have _never_ been able to get over Ingrid.”

“Yes, I have,” Sylvain argues, even though that’s a blatant lie. Felix scoffs.

“When?”

The answer gets lodged in Sylvain’s throat, so he swallows it down. Unfortunately, _now_ Felix thinks he’s right, because his mouth tilts up in a stupid little smirk. Fucking Felix. If Sylvain wasn’t embroiled in his current dilemma, he’d deck him.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “It’s just something I should do, right? She doesn’t—I mean, you know.”

Felix tilts his head. The smile vanishes from his face, replaced by a cruel sneer. “Have you even talked to her about it?”

Sylvain grimaces. “I can’t even talk to her about the weather anymore.” Which, really, shows how bad it’s gotten.

“Then talk to her,” Felix suggests, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like Sylvain’s heart won’t fall out of his mouth if he does. Like Ingrid won’t assume that he’s just playing with her heart. Like that won’t ruin their friendship at all.

Felix, Sylvain decides, has the worst advice ever.

“I can’t just _talk to her_ about it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Okay?”

Felix is frowning. He really doesn’t get it, which aggravates Sylvain more. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to think of a way to explain this— _Ingrid knows me, Ingrid knows me better than I know myself, Ingrid knows everything and I don’t want to ruin it by opening my mouth and saying—_

“Hey, Sylvain?”

Sylvain snaps his head up. Ingrid is standing there, wringing her hands together. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, a dead giveaway that she’s worried. Probably over something he did, if Sylvain’s honest.

“Hi, Ingrid,” he says, stumbling slightly over her name. “Uh—what’s going on?”

Ingrid eyes him strangely. This, Sylvain has to admit, is new. It also partially terrifies him.

“I just,” she says, and then hesitates. Swallows. “You’ve been acting weird lately. A little…distant.”

Sylvain glances at Felix for help, but Felix is swinging his sword at a practice dummy, back facing them. Clearly, his help ends here.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Ingrid goes on, and a lump hardens in Sylvain’s throat. As if that isn’t bad enough, her fingers brush against his arm, very gently, and _fuck_ his heart is going to fall out of his chest—

“I’m fine,” he says, a little too loudly. Ingrid blinks, and a look of surprise flutters across her face for a moment. “I’m—sorry, I didn’t—it’s just the war, you know? It’s, ah, it’s a lot, it’s really stressing me out.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Felix falters, and he can practically feel him judging his words. But Ingrid doesn’t notice; she merely tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing him.

“Are you sure?”

“Very!” Sylvain says cheerfully. His stomach is roiling tightly with nerves. “That’s it! I promise! I’m okay! And you’re still my best friend, no matter what!”

The last part is a little too cheerful for his own good. Ingrid flinches, but she smiles at him anyway. Unconvincingly. She doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, good,” she says. “I was just worried…I don’t want anything to change between us, you know? I was worried something was.”

Sylvain smiles brightly at her, knowing that it feels fake and knowing that Ingrid knows it’s fake. His heart is cracking with the weight of all this love. He’s not sure if it’ll tumble out, the moment he opens his mouth.

_I want something to change, I want you, I love—_

“We’re good,” he says instead, and nods for emphasis. His tone is quieter than usual, and he knows Ingrid hears it. “Don’t worry. I, er, better get back to my room.”

Ingrid frowns. She knows there’s something off with him, Sylvain can tell. Ingrid knows the hitch and fall of his voice like a melody, knows every infliction of his tone. She _knows_ him. It’s terrifying, how she knows all this yet remains in the dark. The fear rattles his heart, so he spins on his heel and strides towards the doors.

“Wait, Sylvain—”

But Sylvain is already gone.

+

Sylvain had never really stopped loving Ingrid—Felix was right on that. But his crush came to a stuttering halt, at least, after Glenn’s death.

Because after Glenn’s death, Sylvain spent weeks upon weeks in Ingrid’s house, taking care of her horse, talking to her little brothers, and mostly leaning outside her bedroom door. Talking to her quietly, trying to take the grief from her heart. He had never wanted Glenn dead, never in his life, and listening to Ingrid sob through the door, he was almost angry at Glenn for dying. Angry at him for leaving Ingrid behind. Angry at him for making Ingrid feel this way.

 _I know you really loved him,_ Sylvain had said, and that was when he realized that her love would only be for a ghost. It didn’t matter that Glenn was gone. The boundaries of love could extend beyond death. Ingrid made him read enough fairytales to know about that.

So he never really stopped loving her, but he put his feelings behind him for awhile. Because it wasn’t his place to love her then. And, maybe, it’s still not his place now.

+

“Did you sleep okay?”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. They’re supposed to be saddling their horses for a battle, but Ingrid has mostly fiddled with her reins and waited for Sylvain to finish. Her eyes have been tracing every little movement, from the way his fingers fumble with his reins to the way he blows a strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Kind of.” Not really. He had mostly studied the ceiling, half-considering the battle coming, half-wrestling his heart with his head. _I don’t want anything to change—_ whatever’s happening in his heart constitutes as a change, doesn’t it? It’s not his place.

But if he dies, well. She would never know, and he would hate to die with an unspoken confession. Then again, he had promised her he would be careful, and that seems more important than anything.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says. She purses her lips, looking rather frustrated. “Look at me.”

Sylvain obeys, forcing himself to meet Ingrid’s gaze. Her eyes flick over the slant of his jaw, the light in his eyes, the lines creasing around his forehead. She’s studying him. Looking for something.

“You didn’t sleep well,” she says. Which is kind of pointless, considering Sylvain didn’t exactly lie to her, but Ingrid knows his half-truths and half-lies and won’t take it. “You have bags under your eyes.”

Without warning, she cups her hands around her face, her thumbs gently brushing his cheeks. Sylvain blinks, his heart drumming loudly in his chest. Her hands are warm, but she’s already letting go, stepping back and tilting her head to the side.

“Is something wrong? You can’t go into battle half-awake, Sylvain.”

“I’m awake,” Sylvain says. He rubs his eyes and smiles at her. She still looks on-edge. “Don’t worry.”

“Uh-huh,” Ingrid says, sounding skeptical. She watches Sylvain adjust the girth of his saddle, features arranged in a concerned frown. “But you can’t just go rushing in—”

“Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I can stay close to you,” Sylvain interrupts. He wheels around to face her, and he’s surprised to see that splotches of pink have bloomed on her cheeks. Not what he was expecting. He backtracks, a little clumsily. “I meant to, anyway, I mean, I was going to, because you know, I want to protect you, but today you will, I mean you’ll protect me, I’m sure—”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says gently, but with enough force that he shuts up. “Just be careful, okay? And I’ll stay close to you. Don’t worry.”

Something in Sylvain’s chest splinters, and warmth floods from his heart. He nods, fixing his horse’s bridle to avoid looking at her. The silence following is weighted, waiting for a confession that always dies on his tongue.

_Stay close to me, I’ll protect you, I love—_

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, and her voice is very quiet on his name. He looks at her; her gaze is very soft, like dawn breaking over the sky. “Is…something wrong?”

Ingrid knows him. She knows the rhythm of his heart has been disrupted. She just doesn’t know that she’s the reason. Sylvain swallows.

“No,” he says, and tugs on the reins of his horse. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Ingrid lets him go.

+

Because Sylvain has a tendency to be as reckless as he can, he _does_ get injured in battle. One moment he’s slashing with his lance, trying to clear a path of enemies, and the next he’s lying flat on the ground, pain splintering through his ribcage, lightning buzzing through his body. He’s still breathing, but his body feels like it’s been shocked inside out and he can’t exactly move. He squints at the sky instead. Pegasus riders circle through the clouds, but it’s impossible to tell which one is his best friend.

 _Ingrid is up there,_ he thinks dumbly. Then, _she’d never forgive me if I died here, huh?_

In the end, Mercedes finds him. She heals the thunderstorm that had been thrown in his chest, quickly erasing it with white magic. The lightning disappears from his veins, and Sylvain can breathe easily again. It’s quick and effortless and he’s fine at the end of it all.

That doesn’t stop Ingrid from freaking out.

“What were you _thinking?”_ she hisses, storming up to him after the battle. Sylvain braces himself—her reaction is always the worst part. “You reckless idiot, you said you’d stay close to me, you said you wouldn’t go far—”

Sylvain swallows. “I know.”

“And then I couldn’t see you, and I was looking but there were too many enemies…you’re so— _Sylvain_ —”

“I know—”

“I couldn’t see you—I was too high up—I couldn’t get down—” Ingrid rakes her fingers through her hair. Her tone is rising with desperation, a note of hysteria latching onto her last word. Sylvain has never heard her sound this worried, even when he’s had worse injuries. He lowers his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” he says, really quietly, and means it. Ingrid takes a deep breath, trying to control herself. There’s something off, Sylvain thinks. She’s never usually—like this. Breathless, scared, unable to spit out her words. Something is wrong.

“You scared me today,” she finally blurts out. She takes a deep breath. “And I can’t—I really can’t lose you.”

Her voice is quiet but urgent. It’s strange, because Sylvain almost feels that there are two different meanings sunken in her words. That she means to say something else. But he pushes that away; he can’t be too optimistic. Ingrid is only his best friend, nothing more. He should not look for something that isn’t there.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he promises her, voice equally quiet. “I told you—I’d be careful. I am being careful. I promise.”

Ingrid bites her lip, studying him carefully. Not for the first time, it strikes Sylvain how pretty she is. Her hair is messy and dirt is smudged on her cheeks and dry blood is crusting on her gloves, but she is prettier than any saint. Still, she looks slightly disappointed, like she doesn’t believe him.

If he can’t make her believe that he’ll stay safe for her, how could she believe him if he told her he loved her? The thought troubles Sylvain’s mind, so he takes her hand gingerly. Her gloves are still on, and caked with blood, but Sylvain still feels the warmth radiating from her palm. Slowly, he wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes. His heart threatens to leap from his throat, so he studies their hands instead.

“Ingrid,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. A different confession almost rushes to his lips; he has to swallow it down. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

Ingrid’s gaze drops to their interlinked fingers. She doesn’t let go, but her fingers tighten on his. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Sylvain says.

And because he promised her, he knows he has to keep it now.

+

Sylvain lies awake and studies the ceiling again.

He needs to sleep, but his mind won’t shut up. He knows that he loves her. That is a fact. But he also knows that he’s never seen Ingrid act like _that_ before. Out of breath and out of control, trying to say something that just wouldn’t come out right. Sylvain has been on that side of the conversation before. He’s been like that around Ingrid. If she’s like that around him, then that could mean—

He’s not sure what is scarier now. Loving his best friend, or the possibility that she could love him back. He had never even allowed the possibility of the latter. It scares him more than he had anticipated.

But there’s no use in trying to ruminate on this; it’ll only make him tired in the morning. And Sylvain had promised Ingrid that he would be careful. He can’t have a repeat of what happened, so he rolls on his side and tries to get some sleep.

+

Felix isn’t in the arena when Sylvain arrives, but Ingrid is. She’s studying the wooden lances, her brow furrowed in concentration, her finger poised against her lips. The sun ignites her hair like a halo, and Sylvain knows he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as her. Nobody could ever be like her. She’s special.

“Ingrid,” he calls out, and she looks up. A tiny smile crosses her face, one that sends his heart reeling.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she chastises, hurrying over to him. “You should be resting.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Oh, c’mon, I’m fine. Mercedes said so.” ~~~~

“Mercedes _also_ said you need to rest,” Ingrid replies. There’s a soft lilt to her voice, something that Sylvain rarely hears. It makes his heart coil painfully. “And besides, you’ve been training a lot. You know you can take a break, right?”

Sylvain scoffs. “Ingrid Galatea? Telling _me_ to take a break? I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “You’ve been working harder than usual,” she tells him. “I’ve noticed. I’m not quite sure why you have, but—”

Sweat gathers on Sylvain’s palms, and suddenly the training arena seems a lot smaller. He rubs the back of his neck and forces a laugh. “I’ve just been listening to you. That’s all.”

For some reason, Ingrid’s smile dims at his words. “Is that so?”

Her voice is way too quiet, Sylvain thinks. It makes his heart tremble. He just nods instead, too afraid to speak. His hands are sweating like crazy.

The silence that follows is too loud, too uncomfortable. Sylvain has sat with Ingrid in silence before, but not in a long time, not since the war began. For the first time, he feels a strange peace settle in, something tentative and delicate, something that he could easily shatter with his own voice. But his lungs have gone frozen, and Ingrid is looking at him innocently, green eyes clear and bright and—expectant? She’s waiting, he realizes. But for what, he doesn’t know.

 _Say it,_ a voice says in his head. _Say it, tell her, I love—_

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, and the silence snaps in half. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”

Fear creeps in Sylvain’s heart. He wants this—he knows. But it could fall from his hands quickly as he could grasp it. Ingrid is his best friend. He loves her. He can’t lose her. If she—she wouldn’t—she can’t love—

The doors fling open.

Sylvain keeps his eyes on Ingrid, so he’s not sure who walks in. Instead, he gauges her reaction, seeing her shoulders slump, hope extinguishing from her eyes. “Felix,” she groans, and Sylvain has never heard his name sound so dejected from her mouth.

“Hi,” Felix says. His gaze roams from Ingrid to Sylvain, and he sets his mouth in a thin line. “Did I interrupt anything?”

Sylvain glances at Ingrid. She tugs on a strand of blonde hair, looking extremely frustrated. Her face is flushed red, and she crosses her arms tersely. She’s mad, Sylvain realizes, and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

“No,” Ingrid says, and doesn’t look at Sylvain. “No, you didn’t.”

She storms out of the arena, cheeks still burning red, head bowed low. Sylvain glances at Felix, but his friend merely looks unfazed.

“What happened?”

“She was going to tell me something,” Sylvain mumbles. He rakes a hand through his hair; what _did_ she want to tell him? “Then you came in.”

“Sorry,” Felix says, not looking very sorry at all. “Maybe she wanted to confess her undying love to you.”

Sylvain glowers at him. Felix tosses him a sword.

“Don’t look at me like that, isn’t that what you want? Just talk to her later.”

Sylvain makes a face. “How do I even start that conversation?”

Felix shrugs. “Talk about the weather,” he suggests, and lunges with his sword, barely giving Sylvain time to block. “C’mon, Sylvain. It’s just Ingrid, you’ve been saying it since the beginning. Does it matter how you start it? You’ll end up where you need to be.”

 _It’s just Ingrid._ That is true, isn’t it? Sylvain knows Ingrid, and Ingrid knows him. There has never been a situation that they haven’t resolved, never had a rift that’s driven them apart. Sylvain can’t start now. Fear can’t let him do that.

Maybe Felix _does_ have good advice after all.

“I’ll talk to her,” Sylvain resolves, and blocks Felix’s attack.

+

His fear comes from this:

Ingrid is his best friend. He knows her. He loves her. He knows her heartbeat like the rhythm of his own. She is his closest friend; she understands him better than anyone. And that terrifies him.

Because Sylvain knows the only thing scarier than falling for someone is falling for your best friend.

+

Sylvain finds Ingrid sitting by the fishing pond, her legs dangling just above the water. She’s wearing no makeup, and her armor has been stripped away. The moonlight casts a faint glow against the outline of her shoulders, and for one moment Sylvain can only stare at her. She is so, so beautiful.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice echoing over the water. “Want some company?”

Ingrid looks at him. Her mouth twists in a wry smile, but Sylvain notices the worry lines etched between her eyebrows. “I thought I told you that you need to sleep.”

“Oh, c’mon. We have no battle tomorrow, just some stupid tactic lectures.” Sylvain walks to the edge of the pier, and Ingrid shifts wordlessly to make room. He settles next to her, careful not to brush her arm. Strange to him, how he’s been hyperaware of this without even realizing it. It’s a contradiction within itself. “Besides, it’s a lovely night. Perfect weather.”

Ingrid tosses him an amused look. “You’re talking about the _weather_ now?”

Sylvain doesn’t have a response to that. Clearly, Felix’s advice of _just talk to her_ isn’t working, which really furthers the point that Felix has the worst advice _ever_. He settles for shutting his mouth and studying the sky, casting glances at Ingrid when she isn’t looking. She really is beautiful, he thinks. A strand of blonde hair tickles against her cheek, and he wants to push it back, but he doesn’t—he knows that’s not allowed. Instead, he curls his fingers against the edge of the pier, and takes a deep breath. The air is cold against his lungs.

 _Just talk to her._ But how can he? He doesn’t want to make the conversation stilted; Ingrid would see right through it. There is so much he wants to say, yet there’s no safe way to put it. Evidently, the best thing to do is jump. Sylvain has never been a coward, after all. He’s reckless with everything. His heart should not be an exemption.

 _Don’t hate me,_ he thinks, and then clears his throat. “Ingrid?”

She looks at him. Her eyes are bright, Sylvain thinks, as bright as the moon. And burning with anticipation, almost excitement. “Yes?”

Sylvain swallows. _Say it,_ his heart taunts. _I love—_

“When we were kids,” he blurts out, knowing that he’s drawing out his confession as long as he can. Still, Ingrid’s eyes dim with disappointment, which almost makes him feel like he fucked up. “Do you remember? When we played, uh, those make-believe games, and you were always the knight ‘cause you never wanted to be the princess, and you always wanted to save us? And I was the one you were rescuing a lot.”

Ingrid is frowning. But also considering this, judging by the tilt of her head. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Sylvain says. His hands are damp against the wood. “Well, I, uh, don’t hate me for saying this—”

“Why would I hate you?” Ingrid’s tone is concerned, and Sylvain presses his hands deeper against the wood. A jagged piece splinters into his palms, but he barely registers that pain.

“Because,” Sylvain says, and he’s run out of time now, the confession has to come out. “I think—no, I know—I loved you then and I still love you now. I never—I didn’t stop. Ever.”

Ingrid’s eyes are very, very wide. She stares at him like she’s never seen him before, like this is not the Sylvain she knows. This is what he has been afraid of, this entire time. For her expression to shift and twist, desperately trying to find the boy she knows. But all Sylvain has is his ragged heart, worn and afraid, and a steady feeling of paranoia. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have messed this up. He ruined everything and Ingrid said she didn’t want anything to change. Why couldn’t he just listen to her?

“That’s all,” Sylvain says. His voice sounds unfamiliar, like he’s hearing a stranger speak. “I’ll go.”

He thinks Ingrid is paralyzed, but he’s surprised when she shakes her head stubbornly, her face morphing into a glare. A classic Ingrid glare—so things haven’t changed too much.

“Why would you go?” she demands, shifting closer to him. Their legs almost brush. “What do you mean by that?”

Sylvain swallows. He knows what he meant, but Ingrid’s eyes are boring into his and he’s scared, he’s worried that he already broke things and if he keeps talking, he’ll make things worse. But Ingrid wants an explanation, and he’s always obliged to her. Always her, always for him. That’s how it goes.

“I’m scared,” he breathes, and Ingrid’s glare disappears, replaced by a look of shock.

“Scared?” Her voice drips with disbelief. “Why?”

Sylvain’s heart catches in his throat. She doesn’t _know?_ She doesn’t get it? “You’re my best friend.”

Ingrid furrows her brow. “You’re afraid because…I’m your best friend.”

“Yes.”

The answer is right in front of her, but Ingrid just looks confused. “I don’t get it.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath. “Ingrid, you’re my best friend,” he says, desperation bleeding into his tone, pleading with her to understand. “I don’t—I can’t hurt you, okay? I’ve never felt like this for anyone else—it’s always been you. I’ve known you all my life and I can’t ruin anything between us, I _can’t_. You know me best and you’re the only one I trust, you’re one of the best things in my life, and I can’t lose you, not even to this, and I’m scared of that, okay, I’m scared of losing you! Please, I don’t—I know you didn’t want things to change, and I’m _sorry,_ and if you still want that I can take it back—”

Ingrid places her hand on top of his, her fingers brushing against the ridges of his knuckles. It’s a slow movement, but a very tender one, and it speaks volumes above all else. Sylvain takes a deep breath, and some of the tension rushes out of his shoulders. Her thumb ghosts along his knuckles carefully.

“I had something to tell you earlier,” Ingrid says, her voice as quiet as the water. “Do you remember?”

Shame prickles down Sylvain’s spine. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten about it. “Now I do.”

Ingrid squeezes his hand. “Look at me.”

Sylvain always listens to her, so he does. Ingrid’s eyes are as soft as the moonlight, a shy smile on her lips, and Sylvain has to admit, he’s never seen her look at anyone like this. The loosest imitation would be the way she looked at Glenn, but even that pales to the look she’s giving him now.

Sylvain knows her. He isn’t an idiot. He knows what this means.

“Oh,” he says stupidly. Oh.

Ingrid nods. The water hums quietly against the dock; the moon’s reflection wavers against the pond’s reflection. All is quiet for one, two, three seconds.

Then Ingrid leans forward and kisses him.

Her mouth is soft against his, and she presses herself closer to him, close enough that her free hand can come up and brush against the side of his jaw, light as a feather. Sylvain closes his eyes, the fear washing out of his chest, a buzzing warmth taking its place. It’s slow and gentle and everything he’s wanted, ever since he was nine years old. He’s never experienced something as sweet as this, and he could fall into it forever.

Ingrid pulls away first. Her face is flushed and she’s breathing a little hard, but her eyes are so, so bright. A strand of blonde hair falls in her face, and Sylvain pushes it back, his fingers grazing against her cheek. She smiles at him.

“You’re my best friend,” she says, intertwining their fingers. “You know that?”

Sylvain knows her. He knows what is layered between her words. He lifts her hand up and breathes in deep.

_You’re my best friend. I love you—_

“I know,” he says softly, and presses his lips against the ridges of her knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> I have another idea for them, but there's no way I'll finish that in time for sylvgrid week (i am, unfortunately, incapable of writing anything involving sylvain under 6k words). but i'll write it another time, so keep an eye out...?


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